Where We Gonna Go From Here
by DecemberxAngel
Summary: I can still remember the first day we met. And I can still remember the day it all fell apart.


I remember the first night we met. I was a college student, trying to pay the bills by playing waiter at a local restaurant. You were a successful photographer whose pictures were plastered in every magazine and art gallery in the city. You came in for a simple cup of coffee, and I was lucky enough to be the one to serve you. I asked you how you were, you said you were fine, I gave you the coffee, you gave me the money, and you walked out. I thought I'd never see you again, but that was okay; you were just a customer then.

I was surprised, then, when you came back in the next night. You ordered coffee again, and once again I was the one to serve you. This repeated for several nights, until one day you asked me to dinner after my shift. I agreed—after all, how often does someone like you even notice someone like me was even alive?

You took me to dinner, and we ended up sitting at that table long after the bill had been paid, just talking about anything and everything. You told me about growing up in the city in a privileged, wealthy family, about how your parents wanted you to be a doctor but you loved photography too much. I told you about growing up in twelve different foster homes, and how I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life; I never thought I'd even make it to college. We talked until the waiters gave us dirty looks for staying there so long, and you dropped me off at my house with promises to see me again.

You picked me up the very next night and took me to a little coffee shop at the edge of the city before taking a walk through a park that was nearby. That night we talked about movies and music and books, about how we both loved Stephen King but thought that the movie The Shining was terrible. We discovered our mutual adoration of Italian food and old Westerns, and how we would both sit outside to watch the full moon. Sometime during that walk your hand slipped into mine, and we stayed that way until it was time for me to leave.

Four months later we were a legitimate couple. I remember the first night I spent at your home. It was a beautiful building, with elaborate, expensive furniture and eclectic art hanging on the walls. I thought of my two-room apartment with faulty electricity and felt my cheeks reddening in embarrassment. You never once mentioned our difference in lifestyles, however. You treated me as if I was just like you, and for that I will always be grateful.

I remember looking at the clock after we had spent a few hours watching movies and realizing that it was too late for me to go home. You suggested that I stay with you, and I choked on my words in surprise. I told you it wasn't a good idea, that I was the kind of person who wanted to wait for marriage. You laughed and said you were that kind of person, too—you had only meant that I could literally sleep over. When you said this, I laughed as well. I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn't.

I slept over many nights after that, but we never got any more physical than making out. That was fine with you, and fine with me; we both wanted our relationship to be more then the physical aspect of it. Pretty soon I had moved in with you, and I thought that I had found the fairy-tale romance I had been waiting for since I was a child.

The first time I told you I loved you, I had wanted to surprise you with your favorite dinner. I had been working hard to make eggplant parmesan and a cherry pie for dessert, and everything was almost done. I was just taking the pie from the oven when you walked into the kitchen, but I didn't hear you. When you said my name, I jumped in surprise, and the pie slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. Scalding filling and hot shards of glass covered my hands, and I yelped in pain. You were there in an instant, carefully leading me to the sink and running water over my burnt and cut hands. As you cleaned the blood from my skin, I caught your eye and told you I loved you. You smiled and said you loved me too, but that I should never make a pie again. I remember laughing before bursting into tears. You loved me too. I had never been so happy.

We had just celebrated our second year's anniversary when things started to change. It started as little things; you had grown distant, not talking unless spoken to first, ceasing to hold my hand, things like that. I didn't know what was wrong, but I tried everything to make you happy again. I took shorter shifts at the restaurant to spend more time with you, made your favorite food for dinner every night, but you grew more and more cold towards me. I knew things were falling apart when I said I loved you and all I got was an, "I know."

Then, one day, I came home to find all my things packed in a suitcase by the door. I asked you what was going on, and you just looked at me with a detached expression. You said that things just weren't working out any more, that you and I wanted and needed different things. When I said I didn't understand, you got angry and slammed your hand into the wall. You said that we were in different places in life, and I finally realized what was going on. What it all boiled down to was that you were some famous photographer and I was a college waiter. You had decided I wasn't good enough for you.

That was when I got angry. I yelled at you for lying to me, for telling me you loved me when it wasn't true. I accused you of using me like a pet you didn't want any more. Then you got even angrier, and it took me several moments to realize what had happened. You had slapped me. The love of my life had hit me.

That was the end. I dug into my pocket and threw the ring I had bought at you. That's right; I was going to propose to you that very night. With angry tears running down my flushed cheeks, I told you that I regretted ever going out to dinner with you that first night. I never said goodbye; I slammed the door and never looked back.

Two months later, I was working at the café when a stern-looking woman with a tight bun came walking in, a heavy envelope in hand. She handed it to me, saying that she had some news. You had died several days before. I sat down heavily in a chair, every word coming from those lipsticked lips making my heart break a little more.

Around our second anniversary, you had gone to the doctor's for a routine checkup. It wasn't so routine, however, when they told you that you were very sick and had less then a year to live. You panicked; how were you going to tell me? So you decided not to tell me, to save me from the stress and the worry. Instead, you shut yourself off from me, afraid you'd let your secret slip. But on that day two months ago, the day I was going to propose, the office had called you to say that your most recent results had come back—your sickness had become advanced, and you only had a few months left.

So, you did the only thing you could. You made up an excuse about why we should break up, if only to spare me the pain of watching you waste away. You checked into the hospital the next day, and you died just thirty-six hours before.

When I heard what had really happened, I broke down. You hadn't cared about the fact I was a waiter—you had cared about burdening me. I was still crying when I opened the envelope that had your will. You left me everything; the apartment, the money, everything. But it meant nothing, because I didn't have you.

Your funeral was packed with hundreds of people, some famous, some not. They buried you in your favorite clothes; jeans and a leather jacket. On your finger was the ring I had thrown at you—your mother said that you had never taken it off.

I haven't cried since they buried you, but I still feel so empty without you. I wish you were here with me, I really do. I wish that you had let me take care of you in your final days. When I think of the last words I said to you, it makes me want to break down all over again.

But the fact that you wore the ring means you knew I loved you. Even though I left in such a hurtful way, we still loved each other. I visit your grave every Sunday, and I wear the ring I had bought for myself that matched the one you wore six feet below me.

I still expect you to walk through the café door and order a cup of coffee.


End file.
